


Slippage

by robocryptid



Series: Tumblr/Twitter Ficlets and Drabbles [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: McCree compartmentalizes. Hanzo knows it, because he does the same.It’s supposed to be simple, and it’s anything but.





	Slippage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 76 kisses meme I'm doing on Tumblr for [swintendonitch](https://swintendonitch.tumblr.com) and anon. This one also felt just a little too long/complete to post as a chapter in a collection.
> 
> Original prompts: 75. Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing and   
> 57\. Breaking The Kiss To Say Something, Staying So Close That You’re Murmuring Into Each Other’s Mouths

McCree compartmentalizes. Hanzo knows it, because he does the same.

It’s been clear what this is since the start. McCree already has family and friends in Overwatch, confidants and mentors, people with whom he carefully doles out each part of himself. Perhaps one of them even gets the whole picture, but Hanzo doubts it.

Hanzo knows his own role. When everyone else is family, it makes sense to assign him this. It’s baser, easier than any of the others, product of a tipsy proposition and Hanzo’s equally compromised acceptance. He’s somehow kept the role even when there’s no alcohol to excuse it.

It’s simple. Easy. He needs the release as much as McCree. And the sex is good. Their work in the field’s always had an organic ebb and flow, a natural synergy that defies their stubborn dispositions. It translates well.

Hanzo works to keep it simple. He compartmentalizes and doesn’t address the contradiction.

The lines blur sometimes, even so. After a nightmare, before he skulks back to his own room. During a mission, when McCree’s voice cracks on his name. Higher stakes cause greater slippage. He thinks he should have prepared himself, but it comes as a surprise every time.

Hanzo can sense McCree’s presence pulling at him. Hanzo finds him in his room, hunched over his armor with a rag in hand, buffing it out. Peacekeeper’s in gleaming pieces on the desk. McCree’s focused, barely acknowledges Hanzo’s there. 

He’s too intent. Frenzied. His shoulders are practically at his ears. The body armor’s shinier than Hanzo’s ever seen it, and still McCree hasn’t stopped.

“Not a good time,” he mumbles, and Hanzo can feel the truth of it. This is the hard line, the one they don’t cross. They don’t discuss these things. It’s not the role Hanzo’s been assigned. Yet it feels wrong somehow to leave now. The watchpoint is nearly empty; there’s no one around who’s suited to handle this.

Hanzo hesitates too long. McCree’s hands pause and he looks up, brow dark and drawn. Haunted. “That looks finished,” Hanzo says, before McCree can tell him explicitly to leave. It’s not the right thing to say and he knows it. It’s cool. Impersonal. But he’s deviated enough from the norm already.

“You the expert on my equipment now?” McCree asks testily. 

“No,” Hanzo says. McCree doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t send him away either. He lets Hanzo move closer, wary eyes on him the whole time. McCree’s neck cranes when Hanzo’s knee bumps his. Hanzo stands, imperious and cold. He doesn’t know how to ask. It isn’t in his nature. Instead he says, “It looks finished. Surely you can think of better things to do than polish your armor.”

McCree looks like he might argue, but he doesn’t in the end. He’s never said no to this. He sets the armor down on the floor like it means nothing after all his work, and he pulls Hanzo in. Hanzo sinks onto his lap and McCree cups his face to drag him closer.

When they kiss, there’s an intensity Hanzo’s not expecting. Like McCree’s focus isn’t broken, only transferred. Like Hanzo’s not the distraction, but the next fixation. Hanzo can’t put a name to the ache he feels; it doesn’t fit easily into its box.

It’s supposed to be simple, and it’s anything but.

Hanzo pulls back to catch his breath. McCree’s brow is furrowed, hands still clutching at Hanzo’s face. They smell like metal polish, like gun oil. They’re smearing grease into Hanzo’s beard, against his neck, into the short hairs at the back of his head, and it’s hard to care. He should ask what this moment is, what McCree wants from him, but his throat’s too dry for it.

Hanzo kisses McCree’s brow, and he feels it tighten further under his lips. He’s not made for this. They don’t talk about these things. It’s not Hanzo’s job to know how to.

McCree draws him back in. Kisses him like he’s been dying for it. Like Hanzo wasn’t here two nights ago, or three nights before that. It’s supposed to be simple, but Hanzo’s internal calendar has adjusted to count down the days between sex with McCree. He stops working so hard, kisses McCree back just the same. It feels dangerous.

Between kisses, McCree mumbles, lips wet and bumping Hanzo’s own. It takes a few tries before Hanzo hears real words:  _please_ most of all, but  _Hanzo_ and  _baby_ and  _fuck me_ too.

It’s not new. It should put Hanzo back in his element, back to more familiar territory. It doesn’t, but at least he knows the steps by heart.

Their clothes come off quickly, a series of movements learned by rote. McCree arranges himself on hands and knees. Demands and begs by turns for Hanzo’s attention, for hands and mouth and cock. He’s pushy, impatient, but it’s easier this way. Hanzo’s too big a coward to look at his face or to speak more than he has to.

Like this, Hanzo can focus. He can banish the questions. Make it simple again.

“Goddamn, that’s good,” McCree pants as Hanzo finally starts the slide in. He tries to take his time, but McCree burns from the inside out, rolls his hips back and forces Hanzo deeper, faster than he ought to. If there’s any discomfort, McCree doesn’t say it.

He sinks his teeth into the meat of McCree’s shoulder as he bottoms out inside him. Hanzo’s as deep as he’ll go and McCree still grinds back, still mumbles out breathless demands. He knows what he’s doing. This part isn’t new.

Hanzo pushes hard on his shoulders, claws a hand into his hair. Tilts McCree’s hips high and shoves his face into the bed, and he drives into him as hard as he can. McCree’s voice is too muffled to make out now, but Hanzo’s heard it enough before. It’s praise, an endless, incoherent stream of it. Sobbed into the sheets and used to wind them both up.

It’s too much, too fast. Neither of them last as long as they should.

Hanzo peels off of McCree. On the way, he brushes his fingers delicately through some of the hair now stuck wetly to the side of McCree’s flushed face. It’s not an apology. Not for something McCree’s always asked for. But it feels better than doing nothing at all.

McCree flops onto his back and stares up at him. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Hanzo.

Sometimes they might doze after. Rarely, they might talk, strained, about an upcoming mission. Usually, this is when Hanzo leaves. This is where the slippage gets repaired. Boundaries reasserted. They compartmentalize.

He’s exhausted. He needs a shower. He needs to  _go_ , and he doesn’t move at all.

“Are you,” Hanzo starts, unsure how to finish it. He wets his lips and tries again. “Are you going to be okay now?” he asks. It’s a safer question than some, and yet every second he stays feels like more danger.

McCree opens his mouth once, twice, then he huffs out a noise. It isn’t a laugh. Hanzo doesn’t know what it is. His jaw works. “I hate this,” McCree says, then his eyes fly wide with surprise. He’s talking again before the cold in Hanzo’s belly can fully take hold. “This part. The awkward part.”

Several interpretations run through Hanzo’s mind. Most of them hurt. Against his better judgment, he seizes on the one that doesn’t. “The part where I leave?” he asks.

“Yeah,” McCree breathes. His face goes softer too, a crack in the mask.

It’s supposed to be simple. There’s still time to repair it, Hanzo thinks. He could walk away now, minimal harm done. They might even go on having sex. Pretend this never happened. “What are we?” he asks instead.

“Don’t know,” McCree says. If there’s one comfort here, it’s that he looks as nervous as Hanzo feels. “But if you wanted to stay, we could talk about it.”

The offer is presented too casually, and that tips Hanzo off. McCree’s invested. He’s failed to compartmentalize too. Hanzo wonders for how long. Wonders if that matters. Hanzo nods, and he lies down beside him, and he puts his head down over McCree’s heart, and they talk.


End file.
